Deleted
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Post by Deleted on May 11, 2008 7:37:20 GMT -5
Aranya had laughed along with him, despite the wounds she had received, and had cut off the right ears of each of the six men before walking back with him. She felt a camaraderie with Felryn, and a respect, that she had not known before.
"I know," Aranya said in a low voice. "Though I feel I can hardly leave Braavos without something. Bad enough that the Dornishwoman is here, but there is another traitor 'holding court' openly too. Some madman who is apparently the son of Maerys." Aranya looked disgusted. "Maerys was a sick, cruel, twisted bastard. I thought Callen had killed his stupid triplets."
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Post by Fel on May 11, 2008 7:44:54 GMT -5
"Targaryens?" Felryn asked with a keen edge to his voice. "Holding court? Does he have allies?"
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Deleted
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Post by Deleted on May 11, 2008 7:47:19 GMT -5
"Apparently the Sealord isn't one of them," Aranya said, bracing Felryn. "No more that just now. Let's just get to the ship." Although she was too proud to say it, she was barely able to stay on her feet.
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Post by Fel on May 11, 2008 7:55:21 GMT -5
"Maybe not the Sealord... but Tristeza Martell would be eager to see a regime change in Westeros." Felryn helped her hobble along as they made their way to the harbour and onto the ship.
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Post by Ser Kenneth Coyn on May 12, 2008 13:49:43 GMT -5
///
Baldric and about five other guards walks the streets of Braavos, looking for a tavern. The men around him appear to be Dornish by their looks although Baldric himself is clearly from the North of there.
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Post by Horas on Jun 30, 2008 3:44:25 GMT -5
Horas Blackwood falls. Blood flows from his wounds, forming tiny red rivers in the cracks between the cobblestones beneath him. He stares upwards as his lifeblood seeps out of him. Dark shapes flit above him as a murder of crows take flight, disturbed, perhaps, by one of the crossbowmen on the buildings above. A murder -- that's what a group of crows is called. Horas had learned that at the Citadel long ago. A murder.
Blue lips part for the last time and Horas whispers a last word, too soft for any to hear. His eyes close.
Somewhere above, a crow caws.
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Post by The Stranger on Jun 30, 2008 11:43:37 GMT -5
The man called Stutters leans down and saws off the Crow's head with his blade. Grasping it by the locks of hair, he stuffs it into a burlap bag. As whistles are blown in the distance, the group melts away.
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Hope you all are well and happy.